


Mr. Barrow Has a Tiff

by Tito11



Series: Mr. Barrow Gets the Guy [8]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-24 23:37:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1621112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tito11/pseuds/Tito11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jimmy looks at the sternness of his face and swallows roughly. There’s a pout about his lips that almost makes Thomas feel badly for scolding him, but then Jimmy waves the letter about again and says, “What about Stewart, then?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Barrow Has a Tiff

The very first thing Thomas does when he feels well enough to get out of bed is take a bloody bath, because he’s been sweating and stinking for days on end and it’s gotten to the point where he can barely stand to be in the room with himself. The hot water feels good on his skin, eases some of the lingering aches the fever brought on, and it gives him the strength to think about just what the blazes happened with Jimmy the day before.

The thing about Jimmy is that it’s been one odd occurrence after another lately, ever since they touched hands in the garden the day Thomas lost his glove. He’s hot and cold, that one, always has been, but it’s been worse than usual these days; one minute he’ll be looking as though he’s going to say something deep and meaningful, and the next he’s scurrying away to moon at the kitchen girls or fix his hair or something else like that. Several times he’s started a sentence and apparently lost his nerve halfway through, letting the thought drop as though it’s a hot coal he’d mistakenly taken up. 

And then there had been the fever. Thomas had considered himself quite fortunate for not having contracted it, but of course that couldn’t be the whole story, as Thomas is nothing if not unlucky. He doesn’t remember much about the time he was ill, to be perfectly honest, but Mrs. Hughes, when she’d visited after he was lucid again, seemed to think Jimmy hadn’t left his side the entire day he was at his worst. They’d thought he would die, she’d told him, and she’d looked very kindly and sympathetic as she’d done it (and after that she’d reassured him right away that the little ones hadn’t been ill at all, which rouses Thomas’s suspicions even further about what that woman may or may not know of Thomas’s secrets). Mrs. Hughes also had some idea that Thomas had been delirious for a time, though she’d said she couldn’t be quite sure and to ask Jimmy about it, which Thomas would be only too happy to do, if Jimmy would ever stop avoiding him.

It’s actually very worrying, truth be told. Thomas doesn’t know the whole of it, but if he were delirious, it’s entirely possible he made some sort of pass at Jimmy, maybe thinking he was someone else or maybe just not remembering clearly what a terrible idea that was. He doesn’t think Jimmy would report him, if that is the case, but Jimmy’s avoiding him for a reason, and what other reason might he have, except that he was suddenly reminded that Thomas is one of the Oscar Wilde persuasion? It’s all very vexing, and to be perfectly honest, Thomas just hasn’t recovered from his fever fully enough at this point to put up with Jimmy’s dramatics. 

 

The second thing Thomas does is to seek out Oliver. Well, he dresses first, of course, and puts on his watch. Finding it to be mid-afternoon, he wanders downstairs, hoping for a cup of tea, which he gets in short order, which just goes to show how very worried Mrs. Patmore must have been. She doesn’t even natter on about the tray full of fine china he’d shattered when the fever had first overwhelmed him, and that’s a bloody miracle. Daisy smiles brightly at him, too, and tells him he’s looking well, though of course she’s always got a smile for him, so that hardly counts (but he does smile back, because that’s just polite, isn’t it?). But then- after he’s drunk his tea and swiped a few sweets from the kitchen counter- then he goes to find Oliver. 

“Hallo, Olly,” he says, upon finding the boy in the kitchen garden, loitering just out of sight from the servant’s door and kicking stones into the vegetables. “Don’t let Mrs. Patmore catch you at that, lad.”

Oliver starts and whips around, eyes going wide and almost misty at the sight of Thomas before him. “Cor,” he says. “Mr. Barrow! You’re well?”

“Quite well,” Thomas says, smiling at him. “And you- how’ve you been getting on?”

“’m alright,” Olly says, looking down at his feet in the way that means he’s not being quite honest. “Just… been a crap week, ‘asn’t it, Mr. Barrow?”

“Language,” Thomas teases, but he closes the distance between them and puts a hand on the boy, just where his shoulder meets his neck. “Are you feeling ill?” he asks, tilting the boy’s face up with his free hand to peer into his eyes. His face doesn’t feel warm, but if he’s coming down with this never-ending fever, it’s best to know now so they can get him reasting early. 

Oliver swallows roughly, blinks back tears. “Not _me_ ,” he says, and Thomas understands so suddenly it almost bowls him over. 

“Oh, Oliver,” he says, pulling him into a proper hug, propriety be damned. “It’s alright, boy. I’m perfectly fine, now, you can see that.”

The poor lad just sniffles and buries his face in Thomas’s just. He’s only a child, Thomas reminds himself, and he’d lost his mum to a fever, hadn’t he? No doubt he’d thought Thomas was going to die, especially if that rumor had been going around the downstairs. “There now,” he says in as soothing a voice as he can muster, hoarse as he is still from the illness. “You’re alright. There now.”

Eventually, Oliver’s able to pull himself together. Thomas dries his tears sweetly, enjoying despite himself the blush that spreads across the poor boy’s cheeks. 

“You’d best be getting back in,” Thomas says, helping the lad straighten his apron ties. “Else Carson will be searching you out. But how about tonight, after you’ve eaten, we have a walk, just you and me. What d’ya say to that?”

“I- thank you, Mr. Barrow,” Oliver manages with an even deeper blush, and then he scurries away, back into the house, but not before glancing back at Thomas at least twice. Thomas smiles, feeling quite serene for once, happy to be alive. He resolves to let Oliver hold his hand tonight as they walk, just because it’ll cheer the boy up to do it. There’s something to be said, he thinks, for having someone adore him and not mind at all that he’s really very lavender.

 

It’s not all so easy, of course. Thomas does, in fact, have a pleasant walk with Oliver later that night, but when he gets back, it’s to find Jimmy sulking at the table. “What’s the matter with you?” he asks, sidling up. He motions with a wave of his hand for Oliver to get up to bed but softens it with a wink.

“Nothing at all for you to be concerned about,” Jimmy says, and stands up roughly. “I’m sure you’ve got other things on your mind, anyway.” He pushes past Thomas quite roughly and goes out into the corridor. Thomas frowns after him, but hears the door to the outside slam a moment later and decides he’d best not follow. He doesn’t want a scene, to be sure, and he’s starting to feel quite weary again, in need of a good night’s sleep before he’s got to face Carson’s- well, his face, eyebrows and all- in the morning. He waits a few minutes, just to see if Jimmy will return, but he doesn’t, so Thomas climbs the stairs up to bed.

 

It’s actually sort of pleasant to get back to normal the next day. Or as normal as things could be, with Jimmy actively avoiding him. Jimmy’s not an idiot, doesn’t do anything that Carson would notice, but Thomas notices alright, which he suspects is the point. He’s not sure what he’s done to cause this reaction, unless it was something he did during the fever, like he’d suspected in the bath, and in that case, it’s complete rubbish for Jimmy to blame him now. He wasn’t in his right mind, after all.

Thomas doesn’t spend overmuch time with Jimmy during the day, as a rule. They’ve each got their duties and, except at meals and a few odd moments in-between, those duties seldom overlap. Its really at mealtimes they make their connections; at servant’s meals, they sit next to one another and talk, and at upstairs meals, they make eye contact as often as possible without it being obvious. With Jimmy avoiding him, though, Thomas gets stuck between Molesley and Baxter at downstairs dinner and between Bates and Carson at supper, and if none of them are exactly happy about this seating arrangement, Thomas is sure he’s least happy of all. He’d curse Jimmy’s name for the whole thing, and for the way there are no covert smiles at upstairs dinner, except Thomas could never curse Jimmy for anything, not even when he’s being a ruddy girl about something or other. Instead, Thomas takes up a rather impressive sulk of his own, determined, at the very least, that Baxter will rue the day Jimmy decided to give Thomas the cold shoulder.

 

Three days later, the whole of the downstairs has realized Thomas is on the warpath. “Haven’t seen him this bad since before the war,” he hears Mrs. Patmore say one afternoon, and it puts a vicious grin on his face, because before the war he hadn’t known Jimmy, hadn’t made himself a better person in hopes of winning his affections. Before the war, he had only been Thomas, not Thomas-in-love, and it’s as well the world knows it. Not that he’s reverted to all of his old ways, certainly not, because Sarah isn’t here to encourage him and he’s mostly only acting out in boredom. He does, however, manage to make Baxter cower in terror once with his threats, and Molesley stutter in fear another time with only a glare, so that’s a definite point in his favor. He also one-ups Bates in conversation twice, gives Anna a sneering glare every time they make eye contact throughout the day, interrupts Mr. Carson in one of his lectures and then cleverly directs the butler’s anger elsewhere, and makes a tidy tip from Lady Rose for being cheeky about her evening gown. All in all, it’s a pleasant few days. Now if only Jimmy would actually look in Thomas’s direction again, it would all actually feel like an accomplishment. 

 

Thomas wakes to find Jimmy sitting on the edge of his bed, looking tired and haggard, yet not at all guilty about avoiding Thomas for days. “What are you doin’?” he asks around a yawn.

Jimmy doesn’t answer, just brandishes a letter in Thomas’s face and says angrily, “Did you fuck him?”

“Who?” Thomas asks, batting away the letter.

“You _know_ who,” Jimmy growls, and Thomas sighs.

“Is this about Oliver again?” he asks with sudden insight. He doesn’t know why Jimmy hates Olly so, and his reasons (“he’s mousy and has sharp teeth”) never really rang true to Thomas. Thomas just doesn’t see what the problem is; Olly is a sweet lad who’s only looking for a bit of attention, and surely a show-off like Jimmy ought to understand the impulse.

The way Jimmy goes pale at the question is a little worrying. “You fucked Oliver?” he asks, voice cracking from strain at his high pitch.

Thomas frowns, genuinely starting to be irritated- at having been woken and at Jimmy’s thick skull, both. “I’ll not tell you again I’ve done naught to that boy,” he says, deadly serious. “He’s barely older than me own son. You clearly think me a monster who can’t control himself around pretty boys, but that is not the case, James Kent, and you’d do well to remember it in future.”

Jimmy looks at the sternness of his face and swallows roughly. There’s a pout about his lips that almost makes Thomas feel badly for scolding him, but then Jimmy waves the letter about again and says, “What about Stewart, then?”

“Stewart?” Thomas repeats, nonplussed. “How do you know about- hang on!” He snatches the letter from Jimmy’s hand and unfolds it. Sure enough, it’s a letter from Stewart, though not the most recent.

“You read my letter?” he asks. Jimmy has the grace to look chagrined, but only shrugs and doesn’t answer. “Why?” Thomas prompts. “Why would you do that?” All the usual reasons- blackmail, inciting legal trouble, or forcing a dismissal- don’t seem to apply here, and that’s not Jimmy’s style, besides.

“What’s that matter?” Jimmy says, crossing his arms defensively in front of him. “Have you something to hide, after all? Did you stop the night with this cad? Did you- did you _fuck_ him?”

“Yes,” Thomas says coolly, because what does he care if Jimmy knows the truth. There’s nothing he can’t get from Thomas’s confession that he hasn’t already got from the letter. “I did, as a matter of fact. It was _lovely_. What’s it to you?”

Jimmy’s cheeks flush with rage and his fists clench. “Ain’t nothing to me,” he spits. “Ain’t nothin’ to me at all if you’re a damned sodomite.”

His anger and indignation pains Thomas, but he only purses his lips in annoyance and says, “You already knew what I was, Jimmy, and I’ll not apologize for it. It’s not hurting you any at all if I have my way with other blokes. If you can’t stand to think of it, then stop thinking of it, and don’t read my bloody private letters anymore.”

“Why?” Jimmy asks, apparently not taking in a word of this. His voice is desperate and aching now in a way that sends shivers down Thomas’s spine. “Why would you do that, Thomas? Why do you have to go off with all these bloody boys?”

“It’s the way I am,” Thomas answers tightly.

“Why them, though?” Jimmy asks. “Why this- this Stewart chap? What’s he got that others ain’t?”

“He’s of age, for one,” Thomas says, thinking of Oliver, who’s still after all this time desperate for a kiss or a cuddle.

“Stop saying that!” Jimmy explodes at once. “Stop saying I’m too young for you. I’m not and you know it!”

“You?” Thomas asks, slightly lost. “What have you to do with anything?”

Jimmy looks stung, but he grabs at Thomas’s hand- the bad one- and squeezes it tight enough to hurt. “Did you let him see your scar?” he asks.

“Who?” Thomas asks, thrown by the sudden odd question. And then, “No,” because it doesn’t matter who Jimmy’s talking about; Thomas has purposefully shown exactly three people his damaged hand, and they were Jimmy, O’Brien, and Edward bloody Courtenay, who Jimmy doesn’t even know about.

“But you told him about Tommy,” Jimmy pushes. “Or- or your father, his lordship.”

“No,” Thomas says again, because a few people know about his son, but Jimmy’s the only one Thomas has ever actually told. And as for the thing about being his lordship’s bastard, well, he never even told Jimmy that, just let him guess.

“But you kissed him and he let you,” Jimmy whispers.

“Well- that is… who are we talking about, again?” The truth is, Thomas has kissed lots of men and the majority of them have let him. Jimmy’s the most notable exception, of course, and there’s always the sodding dead Turk to consider, but apart from that, Thomas’s record is pretty good in terms of judging which men will be receptive to his advances.

When Jimmy doesn’t answer, just sets to chewing on his bottom lip, Thomas sighs and squeezes their still-joined hands. “Look,” he says patiently. “I’ve had lovers, yes. I know why that upsets you, but there’s nothing I can do about that. I’m not going to stop-”

“You don’t,” Jimmy cuts in, and Thomas looks at him sharply.

“I don’t what?” he asks. “Have lovers? They’re not many, I’ll admit, but it’s not easy finding them, you understand. I do my best.”

“You don’t know why it upsets me,” Jimmy mutters, then buries his face in his free hand. For a terrible moment, Thomas fears he’s crying, but he only scrubs his face with his palm and then slides his fingers up into his hair to tangle there for a moment, before letting the hand drop back to his side.

“Why, then?” Thomas asks, when it becomes clear Jimmy’s not going to say more. He’s trying not to get his hopes up, because there’s no way, just no bloody way Jimmy is actually _jealous_. It’s his imagination, he’s sure, and presently Jimmy will tell him it’s disgust, after all, at Thomas’s kind and everything they do together.

“I don’t know,” Jimmy says quietly, studying his hand. “But I hate it. And when I thought you were going to die from the fever… I thought I might have to kill myself, as well. You’re the first thing I think of in the morning, and when you’re not around it’s like the world doesn’t have any color in it at all. When I-” and his lips form the words _self-pollute_ , though no sound comes out, “I try not to, but you haunt me. I don’t know- I would hate it, being like you, but…” Here, he looks up and meets Thomas’s eyes, looking anguished and heartbroken and so very vulnerable. “I never want you to look at any man but me.”

“Oh,” Thomas says, swallowing, heart pounding fit to burst. “Jimmy, I don’t…” He thinks of what he would do if this was someone else, anyone else, admitting they were attracted to him but too disgusted and frightened to go forward with it. He’d break them down bit by bit, he thinks, worm his way into their conscience and convince them they couldn’t live without him. He’d make himself the most important person in their world, and they’d be devastated when he left- the way poor silly Stewart was. And it would be good, while it lasted, but he’d never loved any of them, not the way he loves Jimmy, and if Jimmy ever does come to love him, Thomas doesn’t want it to be a trick or something he himself orchestrated. He wants it to be genuine and pure, the way his own love is. And for that, all he can do is wait. Wait and hope.

“Will you stay here tonight, Jimmy?” he asks. No point in beating around the bush now, for either of them; Thomas’s hopes couldn’t be higher, no matter if Jimmy stays the night or not. There’s no way to protect his heart now. He’s all in, no matter what.

“Nothing funny,” Jimmy warns.

“No,” Thomas breathes. “Nothing. Maybe… I might hold you.”

Jimmy considers, then nods sharply. “Nothing more, though. And this isn’t a promise. I’m not your beau, nothing like that. But you’ve gotta put an end to seeing those other men.”

That’s rather unfair a demand, Thomas thinks: to force Thomas to give up his other potential lovers without Jimmy ever declaring intent of his own. But honestly, most of those men Jimmy seems to deem a threat had never meant so very much to Thomas, and he hasn’t seen any of them in ages. But even if they meant the world, he would have given them up anyway, just for the chance at Jimmy.

“Oliver’s nonnegotiable,” Thomas warns him. He’ll not compromise on that, not when the lad’s harmless and would be so devastated if Thomas abandoned him.

“Fine,” Jimmy grumbles. “Now shove over.”

Thomas does, pressing himself back against the wall on the other side of the bed and holding up the coverlet for Jimmy to slide under. He’s only in his night clothes, Thomas notices for the first time, and his eyes are involuntarily drawn to the exposed golden-skinned collarbone. He licks his dry lips, knows Jimmy sees him do it by the man’s pause, but in the end, that doesn’t stop Jimmy from sliding into the bed next to Thomas. 

It’s a small bed, of course (probably just for this reason, to discourage servants from having it off), so the only way they can manage to fit the two of them is with both on their sides and Thomas wrapping his arms around Jimmy to keep him from falling. It’s not comfortable, exactly, but Thomas can’t help but relish the feel of Jimmy’s body pressed shoulder-to-hip against his, Jimmy’s back so tight to Thomas’s chest not one of them can breathe without the other feeling it. He’s warm, too, and the way they’re situated, Thomas can push his face into Jimmy’s curls and just breathe. It all starts to get to him embarrassingly quick, and he starts to firm up a bit, as it were ( though not the whole way; it is quite late, and he’s not a teener anymore). He can’t see how Jimmy doesn’t notice it, pressed together as they are, but he doesn’t say anything, not even when Thomas puts a hand on their hips and draws him closer still, so Thomas stays silent on the matter.

The uncomfortable excited pitter-patter of his heart does die down, eventually, as well, and he settles into something closer to comfortable and comforted than nervous and hopeful. He’s not sure he entirely believes this is happening, that after all this time Jimmy might really love him back. It could be a dream, he thinks, or a misunderstanding. It could be a prank or a set-up. Sarah O’Brien could be having him on from a world away in India. It could be- anything, really, and Thomas would believe it easier than this, what he wants most in the world.

Still, even those thoughts can’t keep his attention forever, and he’s just starting to drift into sleep when Jimmy whispers, “I was scared.”

“What?” Thomas asks, suddenly awake again completely. 

“When you kissed me. In my bed,” Jimmy elaborates, voice so quiet Thomas wouldn’t be able to hear it if they weren’t lying so near. “Shook me all up. I hadn’t thought of it before that, you know. But then, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and I hated you for that.”

“I’m sorry-” Thomas starts, but Jimmy shakes his head, curls brushing against Thomas’s cheek. 

“Don’t,” he says. “I’m not cross. I just… wanted you to know that, I suppose. Took me a year, it did, to get over that, and even then not entirely. I dunno how long it’ll be this time. Might take months for me to work up the courage to do… anything at all. If you don’t- if you can’t be with me, I understand that.”

“I can wait,” Thomas swears, and he means it with everything he’s got. It won’t be easy, he’s no doubt of that, and like as not Jimmy will have panics and setbacks. It’ll be two steps forward and one step back, like as not. It’ll be worth it, though, because Jimmy might not have said it yet (may not say it for a long time to come, either) but he does love Thomas, that much is obvious. And that’s all Thomas ever really wanted: to be loved by someone he loves.

“I love you,” he mouths into the back of Jimmy’s head. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

Jimmy doesn’t say anything else, and then, somehow, they both find sleep.

 

When Thomas wakes in the morning to find himself with an armful of golden footman, his first thought it that he must be dreaming. The previous night seems so unreal, so unlikely, that he can’t help but to pinch himself. It hurts, and Thomas grins viciously, because no one can see him do it. It’s just… Jimmy, here in his bed, makes him so damn happy he can barely contain himself. He wants to stand up and dance about like an idiot, or maybe climb a tree and shout his love to the world. Jimmy is in his arms, though, and he doesn’t want to disturb him, so he contents himself with studying the beloved face. What he wants, he thinks, more than dancing or shouting, is to kiss Jimmy awake. Except, that hadn’t turned out so well in the past, had it? He looks away, instead, because he never meant to hurt Jimmy, even if he’s too glad about this outcome to be properly sorry as he should. When he looks back, Jimmy’s eyes are open. 

“You didn’t kiss me,” Jimmy says quietly. “I thought you would.”

“I never make the same mistake twice,” Thomas tells him. “There are enough mistakes in my life without going ‘round repeating them.”

“It would probably have been a mistake now,” Jimmy admits. “But someday, it’ll be better. I swear that to you. Someday, I’ll want you to wake me up with a kiss.”

Someday, Thomas thinks reverently, and is so unbelievably happy, because Jimmy’s clearly in this for the long haul, he’s just said as much. “I can wait,” he says. “And can I kiss you now that you’re awake?”

“Just the once,” Jimmy says.

And Thomas does.


End file.
